Page 53 of The Lost Husband

The bells ring again, and everyone stands at once with their bowls and spoons. I’m a half second behind, but not purposely. I wait behind the others until reaching the bin of dirty bowls and place mine on top of the pile and the spoon with the others below.

I head back to the laundry room at once, arriving to an empty space. There are only two others typically here in the afternoon, and they should be here.

With the folding table in front of me, I press my hands on top and arch my back for a small stretch. I’ve been overdoing it with the laundry, and I feel a tightening in my lower stomach. I need a moment to rest.

“You should be at confession,” a woman speaks from the open door. She’s one of the sisters who drifts around, keeping guard of all daily happenings. “Are you coming?”

“I—I’m going to stay here and continue folding.”

I’m not sure if I have the choice to skip confession, but I forgot what day it was, and by the time I make it down to the chapel, it might be too late. And, aside from not having anything I’m able to confess, as usual, my body is demanding a break.

No more than a minute or two after the sister leaves, does Mother Superior appear in the doorway of the laundry room. She takes slow steps in toward me. My stomach tightens again, in response, maybe for another reason. An agonizing pain skates across my protruding belly as it turns harder than a rock—a sensation harsher than anything I’ve felt until this point. It’s the stress. It’s putting a burden on my body, and my poor baby. But I bite my tongue, ensuring my expression stays neutral, hiding any hint of enduring pain and discomfort.

“I would like you to rest tomorrow,” she says. “In fact, please meet me at the infirmary directly after the second bell.”

I try to clear my throat to respond, but air is trapped when I reply, “Yes, Mother.”

She nods and pivots on her heels. “We’ll speak more later.”

She knows. Or suspects something is wrong with me. I’ve done all I could to hide my pregnancy, but I have a feeling it hasn’t been enough…

* * *

The night carries on like it may never end, each second feeling like an hour. I can’t find a comfortable position and my heart races without pause. Dull pain swells across my stomach and all I can do is hold my palms along the curves, wishing the warmth would soothe the growing pains. A small flutter and nudge beneath my skin tickles my palm, the sensation unmistakable. The most wonderful feeling in the world.

“Hello, my little love. Mama’s here,” I whisper as a tear slips down my cheek and onto my pillow. “Everything will be all right.”

Yet, I can’t believe my own words because nothing feels right. It all feels very wrong. I shouldn’t be in this level of pain only halfway through my pregnancy.

When morning arrives and my mind unearths from a restless haze, I trudge down the chambers to the infirmary, holding my arms around my stomach as if it needs extra support. A young nun shows me into a small room and taps the medical table before leaving without a single word. I’m left staring at circular stained-glass window along the side wall.

Mother Superior enters the room, along with one of the sisters, who closes the door behind them. “You’ve been here some time now,” Mother Superior says, pulling a wooden chair up to the side of the table. “Long enough to follow our ways.”

Is this because I missed confession?

“Yes, Mother,” I reply, sweat beading along the back of my neck.

“You have certainly worked hard.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And yet,” she says, her voice quiet, “your body says you haven’t been completely honest here.”

I nod as if instinctively. “Yes, it’s true. I’m not well.” I’m lying again. I shouldn’t be lying in a house of God. I know better.

Mother Superior clasps her hands tighter over her lap. “We will tend to your care.” There is no hint of anger or frustration in her words, just an emotionless statement as if her commitment to me is only part of her faith and duty. “But you’ll stay here in the infirmary now. Your body is rejecting… your pregnancy. The pregnancy, I suspect, of which you’re aware.”

Tears are the only response I can offer Mother Superior. That and a silent prayer that she’s just disappointed in me for lying and doesn’t mean what she said about my body rejecting my baby. Would a woman of God play with her words?

The sister by her side hands me a cup of tea before leaving, then returns with a pile of linen—confirmation that I’ll be staying precisely here in this room until they say otherwise. “Is there anything that can be done?” I ask the sister, not knowing what knowledge she has or if she’s just here to give me tea. Someone must know what’s happening.

The day passes in slow increments of ringing bells. Someone is constantly at my bedside, whether it be a nurse checking on me, or a member of the convent here to pray. My questions continue to come and go to whomever will listen, but there’s no other answer beyond, “We must wait and see.”

* * *

Waves of cramps come and go. Dull at first, now fierce and sudden like bolts of lightning. All I can do is press the side of my face into the pillow, pushing it against my mouth to block out the screams I can’t control.

Nurses, sisters, and Mother Superior move in and out of the room, still without a word. Someone has come to change the sheets or add more bedding beneath me, somehow doing sowithout asking me to move. It’s because of the blood. There’s too much blood.